


A Call For Peace

by karuvapatta



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auguste Lives, Brotherly Love, Gen, Laurent Has A Crush, Pre-Relationship, Swordfighting, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:18:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9311255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: Diplomacy won and there's to be no battle at Marlas. But all that aggression and testosterone has to go somewhere, so they're having a tournament instead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written way, way back in the day, and then was beta'd by [loki-on-mjolnir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/basalganglia). 
> 
> So apparently it is my mission in life to flood this fandom with Alive Auguste AUs. Enjoy :D

It was almost sweet, the way Laurent's eyes lit up at the sight of the Akielon delegation. Sweet and a bit worrying—the soldiers marched in perfect formation, somehow more intimidating with their bare legs and arms than fully armed Veretian guards. Next to them Laurent was tiny, fragile, and Auguste had to physically restrain himself from scooping his slight form into the protective circle of his arms. But they were both princes now, greeting their neighbours and almost-enemies; it would not do to show weakness.

He settled a hand on Laurent's shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. His brother's cheeks flushed slightly, no doubt expecting a reprimand that Auguste was not planning to give. But he straightened his back and schooled his features into a more neutral expression.

"Prince Damianos of Akielos!" the herald announced. The Akielon soldiers held up a cheer, repeating the name with more than simple loyalty of men to their faraway ruler. But Damianos led troops since the age of seventeen, it was said.

Auguste waited atop the stairs to meet him, but then, forgoing tradition, took the few steps downwards, to meet Damianos halfway. He could sense his father's disapproving gaze at his back, but this was right, this was proper; both Kings signed their names at the peace treaty, but a piece of paper would not mean as much as a handshake.

Damianos dismounted, with an easy grace of a man used to saddle, and patted the side of his horse's neck before making his way forward. He was tall, taller than Auguste, and broader in arms. He was dark skinned, and in true Akielon fashion, his muscular arms and legs were bare. His face was split into a wide grin. The rumours turned out to be true, then: he was handsome, from the black curly hair framing his face, to his full mouth, strong jaw, dark eyes. No wonder half the court seemed unable to look away.

"Prince Auguste," Damianos said, grabbing the outstretched forearm into a firm grip. Auguste did likewise, tightening his fingers on the sun-warmed skin, and felt the tight cord of muscle beneath it.

"Prince Damianos," he said.

It felt good to say it. They could stand, as equals, on what was once the centre of a great kingdom, not a stretch of land dividing two. Maybe it would be that way again.

Laurent kept a cool façade until the moment Damianos turned his attention to him. Then a blush appeared on his cheeks, and he mumbled a few polite words, barely making eye contact. But it was just this, just shyness, and Damianos took it in stride. He clasped their hands together, and greeted Laurent warmly. They looked almost comically unmatched: the large, intimidating Akielon, and the Veretian prince, short and small in stature.

Damianos let go of Laurent and turned back to Auguste, and to the rest of the court. Laurent's blue eyes stayed glued to his retreating figure.

***

Laurent had fallen asleep on top of his pallet, amongst the stacks of papers he was technically speaking not allowed to read. And he had been drinking wine.

"Shove over," Auguste said, collapsing next to his little brother. His exhaustion was purely mental, from a long day of sitting still and discussing everything, from trade routes and taxation to slavery and marriage laws. And, come morning, he would participate in the games. Shame upon him if he lost them.

Laurent blinked sleepily. He had creases on his cheek, and a sheet of paper lay crumpled in his hand.

"It's late," Laurent said, his voice soft with sleep.

"So it is," Auguste said.

"You should get some rest," Laurent said.

"I am trying to," Auguste murmured, his eyes slowly drifting shut. He could feel his brother's speculative gaze, a thousand questions on his lips. Despite his outward shyness, Laurent was brimming with curiosity, and could piece together facts more readily than men twice his age. But, at this very moment, all Auguste wanted was to sleep.

He heard the inhale of breath, and had the good sense to grab for a pillow and toss it in Laurent's general direction before he could say anything.

Above them, the tent canvas rustled in the wind, which came sweeping over Marlas late in the afternoon. Now, in the middle of the night, it was the loudest sound in the two opposing camps, one red and one blue.

"What are the Akielons like?" Laurent asked, now fully awake. Auguste groaned and rolled over, shrugging his shoulders until Laurent got the hint and began tugging on the accursed laces binding his jacket together.

"Prince Damianos is nice enough," Auguste said, teasingly; he could almost see the blush colouring Laurent's cheeks.

"I wasn't—"

"Staring? Because I am afraid you were," Auguste said, unable to hold back a snort. The jacket was now loose enough that he could worm his way out of it, finally able to feel the cool breeze on his skin, through the thin material of his undershirt.

"I wasn't staring," Laurent said grumpily. He turned his back on Auguste and stomped over, blowing out the few candles that the servants had left on. With his eyes half open, Auguste could see the tense line of his narrow back, and the way he hid his face from view under the curtain of fair hair.

Auguste nodded in pretend-defeat. Ordinarily he might tease Laurent some more, but the exhaustion was catching up with him. He managed one last sleepy grunt when Laurent helped him tug off his boots and fetched him a cover, and then another pang of relief when his brother put himself to bed next to him. It was the middle of the night and they were in the centre of the Veretian camp, yes, but the proximity of the Akielon soldiers still gave him a prickling sense of unease. Prince Damianos seemed honourable, but King Theomedes had a reputation of a bloodthirsty warlord, and there were spies on both sides. The young prince of Vere might be too tempting as a bargaining prize, for someone willing to tip the fragile peace between two countries in either direction—

Laurent's breathing settled quickly, and he slept peacefully. Auguste, heart still pounding with terror at the turn of his own thoughts, allowed that knowledge to lull him to sleep.

***

Come morning, the two armies stood opposite one another on the would-be battlefield. Auguste, fully aware of the weight of expectation on his shoulders, took the steps forward, into the empty space between them. He saw a sea of red before him, Akielons in their austere armour and short swords, keeping perfect formation. And, at the front, Prince Damianos, accepting last orders from his father.

He was smiling. His teeth shone brightly as he strode forward, easy and confident. Every muscle in his body was ready to spring into action, to fight, but he gripped Auguste's forearm like he was greeting an old friend, before they let go and circled each other, awaiting the beginning of their duel.

"You seem excited," Auguste said mildly.

"I have been looking forward to this," Damianos said. "They say you have no equal."

"They say the same about you."

His own sword lay familiar and comforting in his hand. They fought with sharp steel, but the duel was not to the death. This had been agreed upon. Now it was time to see if an Akielon word was worth anything.

The gong sounded.

They moved at the same time, swords clashing, even before the gong faded to silence. The force of the blow sent tremors up Auguste's arms. It woke up something in his blood, too; a hunger, a sense of excitement. His heart pounded with it.

"They won't say this for much longer," he said, and attacked with a series of blows, forcing Damianos into the defensive. He would not give him an inch, not in this.

Each and every blow, Damianos parried. He moved with unbelievable speed and grace, and Auguste soon found himself falling back. Almost without breaking the rhythm, Damianos forced him into another dance; they circled each other, swords meeting, neither quite able to break through the other's defences.

Auguste took new measure of this strange prince. He fought openly, every move laid plain for all to see, like a man should fight. Like no-one in Vere fought, at least not against Auguste. But it wasn't a match of wits, or their acting ability. Just a pure test of skill and of strength.

Another move, a side-step forward, and an attempt at Damianos's flank; his sword was lightly parried, not enough to wrench it out of his grip, but enough to throw his balance. He found it quickly enough, his arms braced for the full blow of Damianos's next attack. Steel met steel, and the ringing of it filled his ears, drowning out the cheers.

They spun around each other in uneven circles. He had age and experience behind him, but in sheer strength, he was outmatched. He could see it in the flex of Damianos's arms, barely straining to counter Auguste. But Damianos's youthful enthusiasm made him too bold at times, stepping into the way of blows he should avoid, throwing himself into danger with wild abandon.

Out of the corner of his eye, Auguste caught sight of Laurent and their father. His brother would not see him fall today; he would _not_.

He was more careful, his footsteps measured; Damianos took it as a sign of imminent defeat and redoubled his efforts, with a furious shower of blows. Some came dangerously close to breaking through Auguste; he panted, heavily, as a blade passed an inch before his face.

The world narrowed to the space between them, the clash of steel, the crunching ground beneath their feet. Some of the easy confidence bled from Damianos's face, giving way to surprise, then pure determination. They were not yet exhausted, but Auguste felt the strain in his own arms.

An opening; he attacked. His sword slid on the armour shielding Damianos's shoulder, harmlessly. Every Veretian throat screamed his name.

Next, he became aware of an onslaught, so fast and sure he barely kept himself upright. His sword flew without a conscious thought. Once more he attacked; once more he was blocked. And then, the next moment—a terrible, heart-pounding moment—he knew he had lost.

He knew it, even before his fingers lost their grip on the hilt of his sword. He knew it from the change in Damianos's expression, heavy breath settling into cold triumph. And he knew it as he fell to his knees, still unsure what had happened, still unable to see past the Akielon prince and the tip of his sword, rested right over Auguste's heart.

"Yield," Damianos said, his voice carrying easily into the terrible silence.

The weight of his failure made it difficult to speak. Every eye was on him now, Veretian and Akielon; no one yet said anything. Damianos's gaze was trained on his opponent, the hand on his sword steady. If he was at all affected by having Auguste's life in his hands, he did not show it in any way.

"I yield," Auguste said, loud enough to be heard.

And, just like that, the spell was over. The Akielon voices rose into a deafening roar; Auguste felt a cowardly pang of gratitude that he wasn't facing his own people in this very moment.

Damianos sheathed his sword. In the same fluid motion, he reached out for Auguste's hand, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat, muscles still corded with tension. But his face was open, and Auguste found no trace of malice in it when he accepted the help given to him, pulling him to his feet.

"You fought well," Damianos said, with clear admiration.

"You fought better," Auguste said.

They stood with their hands clasped firmly together, to cement the idea of a friendly duel rather than a prelude to war this could otherwise become. But, as they parted ways, something else needed to be said: Auguste couldn't help but smile as he said it. "I am glad not to be your enemy, Damianos of Akielos."

He saw Damianos's answering smile, but then he had to turn around and face his own people. kept his head high, but the distance felt simultaneously too great and not nearly enough.

"Father," he said stiffly.

They were waiting for him: Father, with a coldly disapproving expression. Uncle, with mild amusement. And Laurent, his small face blanched with horror and disbelief.

Auguste bowed respectfully, pretending not to notice that every eye on the field bore witness to his failure. But, his heart still caught somewhere in his throat, he turned to his best men, the other competitors.

"We came here to win a tournament," he said to them. "So did Akielos. Will you let them have their victory, Vere?"

Their faith in him might have been shattered, but they still had a King to rally behind. Auguste watched them cheer his father's name.

He was still needed, right here in the field. If nothing else, someone had to hold the men's temper in check. These peaceful games would not devolve into a bloody conflict, just so that his own pride might be avenged. With this in mind, he walked down the length of their line, and looked deep into their eyes.

"They are to be our allies," he said. "And so far the only thing we know for sure about them is that they have one good swordsman. The first round is theirs, but the games have only just begun." He passed next to Jord and Enguerran. To them, he said softly, "Now you must succeed where I failed."

"We saw the fight, Your Highness," Jord said. "I'm not sure anyone could succeed where you failed."

"True," Auguste said easily. "But their Prince cannot be everywhere at once. I bid you all luck."

There was a rustle of activity in the makeshift arena as the servants set the stage for the next part of the games. Auguste made his way over to his tent, dismissing the servants at its entrance. There, as the ornamental blue fabric flapped shut, separating him from the crowds, he sat heavily on the ground and tried to catch his breath.

Over and over, he replayed the fight in his head. Perhaps there was something he could have done—anything—some manoeuvre that might surprise Damianos? If he were just a touch faster, or stronger. If he attacked more, or focused on his defences. If it were a real fight, then perhaps—

Someone slipped inside. It could be only one person, who would move so carefully and yet blatantly defy Auguste's orders. Coincidentally, it was also the last person Auguste wanted to see right now.

Laurent halted a few steps before him, suddenly unsure. His eyes were wide, hands wrenching together; he was trembling.

"I'm sorry," Auguste said, unable to bear the look on his brother's face. His voice sounded hollow. He might try to convince everyone that this was all it was, a friendly match between two men equal in station. But everyone present on the field today saw the Crown Prince of Vere kneel before the Crown Prince of Akielos, completely at his mercy. "I am sorry you had to witness that."

"I thought he was going to kill you," Laurent said, in a strange voice. "I thought—"

Auguste was ready, opening his arms even before Laurent stumbled his way into his embrace. Shaking all over, his brother wrapped his thin arms tight around Auguste's neck and wouldn't let go of it.

"I thought you were going to die," Laurent said brokenly.

"I'm not," Auguste said, and hugged him, mindful of the armour he wore and the soft cloth covering Laurent's skin. He could almost feel the wild beat of Laurent's heart through his chest.

"Don't leave me," Laurent said.

"I will not," Auguste said. "Not ever."

They were both aware how empty the promise was, and it pained him to make such promises to his little brother. But it needed to be said, now, between them; it eased the pain a little, and Laurent ceased shaking as badly. His blue eyes were filled with tears, the tip of his nose already red. Auguste offered him a smile and ruffled his hair.

Then he added, "Not of my own volition." Because that, too, needed to be said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like this would be a much more fitting ending to this story, so here you go! Enjoy! :)

Father's displeasure was a new experience, and certainly not a pleasant one. But, gradually, as the games went on, Auguste proved himself a capable warrior, fighting off two Akielons at once. And no-one could come as close as he did to wounding Prince Damianos.

It was truly a pleasure to watch the man fight, as evidenced by the number of spectators drawn to the ring. And always, without fail, Laurent would be there, his face scrunched up in concentration under the new, cool façade, cataloguing every movement of the Akielon prince. Later, in the evening, he spoke of his fighting technique with more insight and knowledge than Auguste ever expected him to.

His attentiveness did not go unnoticed.

The sun had already set over Marlas, and the nobility had returned to their tents. Auguste, having seen to the books and quartermasters, and to some minor issues which arose between his men, walked into the training ring with clear purpose. His steps faltered when he noticed Akielon red amidst the sea of blue: two of them, Damianos and Nikandros, were hitting each other good-naturedly with Veretian swords, getting used to their length and shape.

"Your Highness," Nikandros said, inclining his head.

The other Veretians in the field were clearly troubled by the outsiders' presence, and, even more clearly, were trying unsuccessfully to hide it. Auguste smiled, ignored the air of pent-up aggression, and strode over to greet them.

“Prince Damianos,” Auguste said. “You honour us with your presence. But I must say, it’s patently obvious this is not your preferred weapon.”

“Oh?” Damianos asked. “To what do you refer, the Veretian sword or the veiled insults?”

Auguste couldn’t help a grin. He grabbed a sword of his own and asked, “Shall we?”

They sparred, to the cheer of their onlookers. Although fierce, the duel lacked the bite of their first meeting. Damianos wasn’t quite at home with a longer sword, and Auguste didn’t mind taking advantage of the fact. He had managed to disarm Damianos twice and laughed at his sullen expression.

"Will Prince Laurent not join us?" Damianos asked.

Laurent, as was his habit, hovered at the edge of the field, the torchlight reflecting off his yellow hair. He almost jumped at the sound of his own name. It wasn't usual for him to be noticed; Auguste was painfully aware of the fact.

"If he wishes to," Auguste said. He offered Laurent an encouraging smile and watched him take a few hesitant steps towards them.

"I am no warrior," Laurent said, his voice surprisingly steady.

Damianos's eyebrows drew together, and he blinked at him. "Surely you have been trained?"

"I received training," Laurent said, a touch defensively. "But fighting does not suit me."

"A prince must know how to defend his people," Damianos said.

"A prince has many duties," Laurent said, now looking straight up at the Akielon. "One cannot expect him to excel in all of them at once."

Damianos nodded in acquiescence, and then casually swung his wooden sword around. "Perhaps not. But in Akielos, no-one would follow a King who is not also the best warrior."

Laurent's eyes turned a little colder. "My brother is the one who will become King, and he already is the best warrior."

"That, I can easily believe," Damianos said.

Auguste noticed the hostility in Laurent's face, as well as some of the other Veretians present. But he himself knew there was no mockery in Damianos's tone, just a genuine appreciation of Auguste's skill. Still, the statement hung in the air, awkward, and Damianos gave it an uncertain pause before clearing his throat.

"Will you do me an honour and spar with me, nonetheless?" he asked of Laurent.

"Akielons seek glory in beating up a child?" said one of the Veretian soldiers, sniggering.

"They certainly seek none in bedding one," said Damianos sharply.

Auguste’s mouth twisted in distaste. He was no stranger to vile rumours, this particular one referring to his own family; he loathed to hear that it had made its way to the Akielon court.

"But they would rather pollute their line with bastards than keep it in their pants," the very same soldier said. He had to be a little drunk, although not drunk enough to hold his ground when Damianos made a move in his direction.

"Jord," Auguste said calmly. "Put the good man on latrine duty."

"Yes, your highness," Jord said.

Laurent had the good sense to remain unaffected by the exchange, focusing instead on selecting a wooden sword light enough to not tire his untrained arm. Only the tips of his ears were slightly reddened.

"Shall we, then?" he said. He approached Damianos with measured, careful steps, not taking his eyes off of him. His slight stature and richly embroidered garments made him stand out even more in the small circle of battle-seasoned soldiers. It wasn't just Auguste picking up on this – the men had the audacity to snigger at Laurent as he passed them, indifferent to the fact that he was their prince. Or that there was a foreign dignitary present.

There was little he could do, however. He stood, fists clenching, and watched them begin their fight.

It was obvious from the start that this would not be a fight at all. Damianos put no strength at all in his attacks, but kept them coming with considerable speed, forcing Laurent to put his training to use without overexerting him in the space of a few blows. And Laurent countered as best as he could, still a bit clumsy with a weapon in his hand, but putting in more effort than Auguste saw in years.

As ever, Laurent watched his opponent carefully, anticipating his movements and not letting himself be caught off guard. Damianos, having picked up on the fact, quickened and altered his attacks, waiting for the moment Laurent would no longer be able to follow them. And, as far as Auguste could tell, that moment never came: his little brother, grossly outmatched in strength, speed, and experience, nevertheless managed to keep up.

Eventually, Damianos knocked the sword from Laurent's hand with a simple flick of his wrist. Laurent took a reflexive step back, breathing harshly, sweat plastering hair to his face and shirt to his torso. His eyes never lost their almost hypnotic focus on Damianos's face.

"You are full of surprises, aren't you," Damianos said, smiling wide. There was nothing but genuine warmth in that smile; Auguste watched with no small amount of pride as Laurent arrived at the same conclusion. "I cannot wait to see what will become of you, Prince Laurent."

Laurent nodded, a bit stiffly.

"Thank you, Exalted," he said, in heavily accented Akielon. Then, without waiting for a response, he picked up his fallen sword and returned it to the rack. With no one paying attention, Laurent made his escape, retreating into the shadows.

Auguste eyed Damianos with new appreciation. The men were sniggering among themselves, with the exception of stony-faced Nikandros who remained at his prince's side.

"I doubt you arrived at our camp to assess my brother's fighting technique," Auguste said, approaching the two of them. "Is there any other reason for your visit?"

"If we are to be allies, we must do more than fight one another," Damianos said.

"Yet you keep picking fights," Auguste told him.

"There does not seem to be much else to do," Damianos shrugged.

"You have yet to experience proper Veretian hospitality," Auguste said, smirking at the thought of Damianos in the opulent halls of Arles. "I regret to say that, for now, all I can offer you is wine."

Damianos returned his grin, and said, "I will be thrilled to see if you Veretians can drink like men."

Auguste wasn't entirely sure, but he thought he could see Nikandros roll his eyes behind Damianos's shoulder.

“Come, then,” Auguste said. “We shall see if I can meet your standards.”

***

Later – much, much later; come morning, really – he waddled into his tent, only dignity keeping his posture upright. Therein he felt his way in the darkness, bumping his head into a tent pole and tripping over a chair.

The chair. The damned chair. It should not have been there.

Auguste shoved the chair aside, lost his balance, and followed. It was quite funny, the Crown Prince of Vere flat on his back, so he giggled.

“I am embarrassed for you,” a muffled voice said.

“Laurent!” Auguste said, beaming. Then he narrowed his eyes. “You should be asleep.”

“You woke me,” Laurent said.

He sat up in the bed, looking awake and angry. Auguste collapsed next to him, rolled over, and then felt something sharp poke at his side.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s nothing,” Laurent said. “You’re drunk—“

He struggled, but Auguste finally managed to wrestle the thing Laurent had hid under his portion of the bed.

A wooden practice sword.

It made more sense now. The chair, shoved aside to where Auguste did not expect it, cleared some space in the centre of the tent. Not enough for a duel, but enough for one small boy to practice slashes and thrusts away from prying eyes.

“Aww,” Auguste said, with a stupid grin. “Are you going to avenge me?”

“Yes,” Laurent said.

It was a flat, decisive statement. His bright eyes shone with determination.

Auguste, overcome with fondness, hugged Laurent tight and kissed the top of his head.

“If you’re willing to challenge Damianos, try it tomorrow morning,” he said, laughing. “His head will be killing him, I guarantee that.”

“Not tomorrow morning,” Laurent said, a tad reproachfully. “I’m not good enough yet.”

“But you will be?” Auguste asked.

“Yes. I will be,” Laurent said, and then looked deep into Auguste’s eyes with a perfectly solemn expression. “I promise you.”

Auguste lied back in the bed, yawning. They had a full day ahead of them tomorrow, and his mind was clear enough to begin regretting the frivolity of today’s evening. Even if both Damianos and Nikandros had proved to be fantastic drinking companions.

“I’ll hold you to it,” he said, eyes already drifting shut. “I’m already looking forward to the day Damianos kneels before my little brother. In front of both our courts, no less.”

As he fell asleep, he heard Laurent’s quiet, “He will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you notice the not-so-subtle foreshadowing? Did you? :D


End file.
